


Halam'Fen

by dharma22



Series: Sweeter than Any Wine [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Sex Magic, Sex Slave, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, magic implemented in sex, personal whore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 22:16:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3912595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dharma22/pseuds/dharma22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arlathan is at its peak - wealthy and powerful. When the gods mingle among the people, it is only natural they make their demands, fulfill their desires, receive gifts. One noble family, the Lavellans, send forth their favours to the Dread Wolf in the form of a girl - a juicy morsel for Fen'Harel to savor the taste of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Halam'Fen

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this at two in the morning and I'm ready to take a blade to my skin. This is the most stressful work to date of mine due to my constant self-loathing and doubt in talent.   
> Please do forgive any mistakes and please leave some feedback. :)   
> Hope you enjoy.

Arlathan was alive with the élan of celebration. Feasts as grand and glorious as those set by the gods were held, garnering the attendance of all rungs of society. Luxury extended to all with no restrictions. A slave was offered sweet wines that tasted of summer or love, reserved only for masters fashioned in rhodium and gold. Laughter was abundant, lungs always emptied and bellies always full. Even the most amoral of lusts could stand to be sated. All this was the way of celebration, of the extol of Gods who walk among us.

The pantheon was thrown open and all who comprised it spilled out to slip fingers beneath garments, brush lips upon feverish flesh, sip wines and spirits from crystal goblets. Gods would slip into this world and indulge in the pleasures of flesh. Though not to imply this action was not one afforded rarely. No, the gods were creatures of wild desires: ones forged in rampant jealously or insatiable urges to prove or lusts that burned like no fire that had ever scorched this world. Power was their substance, the fulfillment of their desires placed before _everything._

And the Elvhen were most eager to please. Their children offered them blood to bathe in, to lick from their lips and giggle with glee. Their children offered them wars with all sorts of chillingly wicked twists. Their children offered them supple flesh to kiss and bruise, bodies to fill and empty into. For a time, Arlathan would sing with a chorus so beautiful the spirits would weep, the sound too wondrous to fathom.

Nothing was taken – everything was given. No tears were shed when the gods demanded this, no fight was launched when the gods compelled that. The glory of ample accommodation was rare and something to bask in, though there were members of the pantheon whose skin itched to prickle with the chill of torment. Some were ravenous for an unwanted pursuit, but they were content as long as their children were quite generous in their offerings.

Elgar’nan held sly ‘tournaments’ to see who was worthy of a ride on his cock, these fights often resulting in either the fatal injury of the defeated participants or complete mutilation. The victorious were graced with _weeks_ of maddening pleasure.

Andruil pitted brother against brother, mother against daughter, lover against lover. She commanded her subjects to hunt for their own, slaughter their own. The huntress took all sorts of devious satisfaction when a son tracked down his father, tore back his head to bare a pale throat and slash a red smile.

Fen’Harel enlisted, no, _attracted_ the service of most willing concubines. His approach towards the obtaining of ends was different from his kin. He did not demand, take, appear. The Wolf _asked_ and politely so for a god who was capable of snapping his fingers and crushing a nation. But he need not even ask, for the company wanted. Perhaps they even needed. Noble families sent to him gifts to undo and explore, gifts to treasure and flaunt. And he did; he exploited his gifts, took them to parties and shared them with glistening cocks and talented tongues. Men and women alike shared his pleasurable assets and no one could deny him.

Pride was his only evidence in that, for he had never tasted the waters of a stormy sea. Had never felt the sting of salt in his eyes or been choked by the angry waters. He would. Sooner rather than later.

\------

_Sweeter than any wine you’ve ever wasted, any cunt you’ve ever tasted._

That’s what the card read in the ridiculous loops of sophistication. Fen’Harel read the incantation over and over again, finding the statement more amusing than before. He’d whetted his throat with millions of _sweet_ wines and cunts before. Some so sweet he thought himself to be sick. But he did enjoy a challenge, both ones of ability and ones of experience.

Oh, he especially enjoyed the trying of new things.

That was his favourite bit. To feel the ripeness burst on the tip of his tongue, to taste the secrets of places deemed precious and sacred when all knew this place was a temple desecrated. But there was scarcely a morsel he hadn’t tried left.

“A more generous offer has never been made.” He teased, fanning himself with the card.

One of Arlathan’s greatest families had sent his way some unwanted daughter, no doubt a hassle to marry off, but a cunt all the same. That was all that mattered, was it not? Men were young, men liked to fuck things without any thought. Better to abandon any and all traces of a person equipped with sentient thought and feelings. Besides, this gift of his was to certainly enjoy whatever he had especially when he had loads to give. Most women did.

“Bring her to me: this little Lavellan.” Fen’Harel purred, his skin already aflame with the feel of silken robes dying to be stripped. His flesh ached to be drenched in the musk and heat of sex. “Take her to my chambers.”

\------

Their treatment of her was not fitting of harsh but nor was it that of gentle. The ferocity with which they scrubbed her stripped her of various layers of skin. But the servants wore smiles as they did so and that was most unnerving. Not as unnerving as the prospect of moments to come.

She was an offering – a piece of meat to be gnawed on for a bit and eventually devoured by the fat. It was disgusting. The abandonment of her family was the worst part. When presented with the option of appeasing Fen’Harel, their eyes went wide with wonder, jaws slacken and voices shrill. Rhuon was to be the one they sent and she had no say. That was a lie, she had say. Before they could sweep her up, she had muttered a single syllable and that was enough.

As close to an agreement as her family could ever manage.

And now she was here – prisoner in Arlathan’s most glorious palace, being bathed and prepared like a meal by the hands of faceless servants. Every feature was painted onto their faces and Rhuon could not find a reason. To hide someone typically homely or to rid them of any sort of person, that’s what she narrowed it down to.

But these servants worked miracles without the touch of magic. They washed her, cleansing her of any trace of impurity and taking away her worth as a person. Along with layers of skin, they’d stripped her of value and in its place she was presented as a present lacking a bow.

“She is ripe! Her body has never been used!” a servant cheered as she shrank away from a touch at her breast. How they gathered that from a single action she had no clue.

“Pure!” they all cried in unison.

Gods favoured the pure – the pure of heart, pure of mind, pure of body – when they themselves were wrought in the most consuming of sins. Their faults and hubris surpassed that of the combined amount of all people in this world.

By the time the servants finished bathing her, she smelt of lilacs and roses and crystal grace. It was dizzying, as was the heat. But a scent of who she was clung too close to her apparently, for the servants produced various bottles of perfume, each differing in size and colour. Skillful noses worked to mix the scents together in order to create a mystifying concoction that Rhuon’s nose couldn’t place. She doubted she even smelled it, her senses as stimulated as they were.

A dab of that concoction on the tips of her ears, the pulse of her throat, the peaks of her breasts and one between her nether lips. Whatever self-respect she had left compelled her to swat away that hand with the fierceness of an agitated cat. She could’ve sent jolts of electricity whizzing through the servant, but her quarrel was not with these mindless oafs. And she was smart, her situation growing worse with every act of defiance a real probability.

Her hair was plaited in an intricate braid only the most skillful and masterful fingers could manage. Her body was dressed at her request, but it was no salvage from prying eyes. The fabric was sheer and hung too low, gliding lazily over one shoulder, covering one breast and skimming just beneath the other, and wrapping around the curve of her ass. As for her face, they did not bother with the appliance of paints or rouges, for they would obscure the beauty of her when Fen’Harel took her. Their way of saying the makeup would wash right off due to sweat.

Rhuon knew it would be tears.

When they forced her before a mirror, she cried out for the woman standing before her was not her. It was a slave, washed and primed for one purpose. It was a woman too grownup to have seen her seventeenth name-day. And they hadn’t even warped her with the weight of makeup. This woman was just . . .

A tool. Means to a sticky end. A hole to fuck.

Rhuon refused to cry. _I want my cat. I do not like dogs, filthy little mongrels they are._

Was this the price to be paid for being a woman? She did not want this; she wanted to trade the spot of her brother’s, but she realized, men were as fair a game as anyone. This was the price of being alive, she decided and she wanted nothing more than to die.

\------

She was young, he saw, sickeningly so.

Young and vibrant, bountiful with potential. And she was here to share his bed, take his seed and be thrown out to make room for another hungry mouth. He was conflicted but deserving of this wonderful treat. He approached her carefully, his eyes too intense for her to meet with anything more than a timid stare.

He drank in the sight of her.

Smaller than most, with willowy limbs meant to flow with the ease of knowing movements. Two small globes sat high on her chest, pert and just _begging_ to be suckled on. Further down lie a patch of dark coils, obscuring from sight a delectable treat. He would find out soon enough the treasures of her.

“Come.” He beckoned, motioning for her to stand at his bedside.

The way this one moved bothered him. There was no anticipation in her step, no force compelling her to quicken her pace. She walked in the stride of the damned – slow and weighted. And he noticed how desperately she tried to hide that glamorous body of hers. Her slip kept little from view and she fiddled wildly in attempts to right that. Arms hugging tight those inviting breasts. Thighs pressed hopelessly near with every step.

Once she stood close, he once again began assessing her.

What distance perverted, closeness unveiled. Skin as red and angry as a boiled rock, fingers slim and nails polished, the faint tracing of a scar just below her rib cage. Her face remained a mystery, for she hung her head low in what most would call a sign of respect. But Fen’Harel possessed some sort of insight. “Undress yourself.” He commanded.

The girl tensed but did as told. With trembling hands, she pulled the fabric from her shoulder and led it down in a graceful descent to the floor, where it pooled around her feet. Now everything was clear, her secrets no more, and Fen’Harel purred in approval.

He stood, his height casting him high above her.

She did not look up.

“Undress me.” Was his next command.

Again, she took up the procession with great hesitance, but went about her orders. Her fingers, while appearing adept, fumbled wildly when it came to working him from his clothing. The robes he wore, all those sashes and clasps and chords that led _somewhere,_ drove her mad just to look at. The thought of unraveling the knot that was his clothing hurt her brain. Not to mention her efforts were severely stunted with the blur of tears in her eyes.

Frustration did hardly anything to fuel her onward.

Like a child, she wanted to beat against his chest and scream every curse in this world she knew. She was humiliated, disgusted, used, abandoned, choleric. And here she stood, pressed before a god ravenous with lust and failing horribly at undressing him.

 _Your robes are too exquisite to shed,_ she wanted to say and they were. Cut exotically to flaunt toned muscles and emphasize certain assets. Coloured so vibrantly and with colours she’d never seen to the point of hysteria. But the colours were not . . . Bright, she noted. Closer inspection showed they were quite dark – reds and purples and deep blues and greens.

She had just begun taking apart the science of one particular clasp when she felt a cool finger tilt her chin up.

His eyes burned with passion and power, the colour of them lost to the _feel._ Were they to actually be defined by _colour_? No, there was more.

_My eyes are those of a tiger’s and his are consuming._

But he saw and that’s all that mattered. Saw cheeks stained with trails of tears. Saw lips tailored into a scowl. Saw eyes drowning in the loss of innocence and boil of hate. And worse yet, he knew.

“You do not yearn for this.”

Fen’Harel was many different things to a wide variety. The Dread Wolf. He Who Hunts Alone. But he was never named a monster. Unlike some of his skin, he did not bask in the suffering of others nor did he feel any particular urge to take what was not his. He had never forced anyone or anything.

He deceived but never lied, had but never took.

“I am not your bitch.” She spat.

_A strong one. Foolishly brave._

Her words sang in tones of scorn and something else that his tongue could not taste. But he felt that her statement was as much a reassurance as it was a refusal. The girl needed to hear what she was not to _believe_ she was not. Else she would be consumed by it.

“Then what are you?” Fen’Harel questioned, thumb tracing the path of her lips. Full and red, a perfect cradle for his cock.

As if his thoughts were her own, she glared daggers at him and attempted to rid her skin of his touch. She failed. “I’m a person.” she growled. “With a name, with a heart, with a mind.”

Oh, he was sure of all that. She had all those things just as all other of his whores had, but he had never wanted to know them. They had never offered. They had never presented anything other than a mouth or cunt to fuck and he was happy to oblige.

But _this_ one . . .

He could not place it. The Wolf did not long for her name nor did he lust for a glimmer of the who, but he was curious. “Then tell me these things. Scream them for me when you have the mind, whisper them when you have no breath.” He said and he captured those lips. ‘Claimed’ them.

She whimpered against him, her body rigid in his arms before she went slack. She did not lean or press into him, just simply melted.

Against the tight seal of her lips his tongue worked, caressing and pleading hungrily for acceptance. She offered none at first but with time came surrender and his tongue invaded her mouth with little mercy. Her tongue, small and shy, fought a timid battle with his. She fought not for dominance, rather sought the _feel_ of a kiss.

“Rhuon,” she breathed when they parted for breath, “Rhuon. My name.”

He chuckled. “Little Rhuon.” The Wolf tried. It tasted right.

Fen’Harel pressed their lips together once more, this one gentler, yet more demanding. The previous had been one of a consuming passion with no _true_ purpose, despite any claim, but this one was meant to evoke allowance and show truth. _This is how it feels. This is what can be if only you’d sanction it._

And she pressed into him to feel the bugle of his hardened cock against her.

Rhuon moaned, her senses adjusting to and loving what had been so long withheld from her. She was not entirely void of denial, her body holding a remaining portion of fear, but the bit demanding to be touched was overpowering.

“Can you feel me, _da’fen?_ Can you feel how hard I am?” he whispered, pulling back from their kiss to trace the shell of her sharp ear.

It was like a wicked blade, crafted for the strict purpose of slicing through the toughest of sinew, her ears and he loved them. “Sharp.” He noted aloud as she quivered.

 _Creators,_ that voice went straight to her cunt. It too felt the lick of his breath, his tongue, his words and reacted accordingly. Contracting and rippling. Pulsating and quivering.

 “ _Yes,”_ Rhuon moaned. Her hips moved at their own accord now, grinding against him, seeking _something._ Rhuon was well aware of sex, Arlathan practically drowning in seas of libido, but she kept away from that part of the world. Members of her family partook in the most scandalous of affairs and often urged her to join on occasion. Rhuon kept far from that life and now she didn’t know why.

Her body was hot, the harshest of winters unable to bite at her skin, and alive with sensation. Fen’Harel’s hands roamed her body with total abandonment of boundaries and every place he touched seemed to hum in satisfaction. “Yes,” she repeated, lips trailing his jawline, “I feel it. I feel you, Dread Wolf.”

He enjoyed that, for she was rewarded with a nip at her throat.

_Bite me._

Rhuon giggled at how absolutely ridiculous of a request that was. And to voice it . . .

“Sweet Rhuon, you were weeping just moments before,” Fen’Harel said, pressing a chaste kiss to her brow, “and now you giggle? Odd _da’fen_ you are.”

Her giggling continued until she could find the words to say. “Bite me.” And she surprised herself with how similar to a command that sounded.

Fen’Harel’s lips split into a devious, wicked grin. “Oh, I will.” He purred and threw her to the bed.

Rhuon gasped, the world spinning for just a moment as she tried to figure what just happened. She couldn’t though, not with the slide and probe of his tongue on her. It glided down her throat, ran the length of her collarbone and swept lower to tease a breast. Rhuon cried out, her back arching and cunt gripping at nothing. His tongue, a master at its craft, drew lazy circles round her breast, each circle growing smaller in circumference to narrow in on her nipple.

He moaned when he took captive the rosy bud, his teeth providing a worthy cage void of escape. The bite pulled a soft gasp from her, a slight blossom of pain spreading forth from her breast only to fade into pleasure as he continued to suck and pinch and pull.

 _Fucking Creators. But also_ fucking _Creators._

Rhuon’s taste was distinct on his tongue, differing greatly from anything else he’d put in his mouth. She tasted . . . Wild, if it had a taste. Like smoke and winter winds. Like spice and fire. It was nothing like the sweat and oils of most. Nothing sweet about it. But _fenhedis_ was it so _good and refreshing._ Even with her gallons of perfume and oils, he could taste the real her, smell the real her.

With the other breast, lonesome and neglected, he began to knead it. Gentle at first. Then wild. His hand encased the entire breast, squeezing and pinching, caressing and kneading. And all the while, Rhuon mewled beneath him, pleading for more.

To further her cause, she wound her fingers in those dark silken tresses of his, gently pulling. Once, her fingers found the tip of his ear and followed it downward into a descent and back up. This elicited a growl from him.

Pleased with herself, she grew cocky and ground her hips against him, thinking nothing of the things it did to him. With a single thought, his magic flickered to life and began to explore her. Tongues of heat fanned out among her skin, bolts of electricity kissing sensitive nerves endings with a livid passion. She screamed as his magic explored her with heavy hands, her body writhing beneath him.

“Please!” Rhuon begged, sweat dampening the sheets.

Not to mention that pool of fire nestled between her thighs. It ached and burned, wanting the attention it was void of.

“Please what?” Fen’Harel asked, still suckling away at her.

In all honesty, she had no clue what it was he body longed for. To be filled? To be taken? To have his fingers stir her up? The things she wanted were too numerous to list so she took to moaning.

And every sound she made drove him wild with need, for it was no longer want. Not in the sense that he _wanted_ a quick fuck or he _wanted_ a drink. Now he needed her and it was in a way he’d never needed anyone. “Sing to me, sweet Rhuon. Weave your tale for me.” He requested, words weighted in Elvish.

His cock pulsated at the sound of her chocked sob. “Touch me!” she cried and he felt compelled to do so. But he couldn’t. Torture was a beautiful thing and he planned to pull her so tight she could snap with the slightest exhale. Fen’Harel pulled back, her breast red and donning bite marks that would bruise. His eyes scanned her body, small and writhing, and he knew his exact plan of action.

Chuckling, he took her hand in his, both snapping wildly with power from the Beyond, and kissed the pad of each finger. “You have your own hands. Your own fingers. Use them, _da’len.”_ He purred, pulling one into his mouth to lubricate. Her eyes grew wide at the act and implication, a lick of fire spreading through her cunt.

Disobeying was not an option she could fathom. Obeying was _all_ she saw and she did just that. Fen’Harel parted her legs and what he saw dazzled him. A hungry cunt just sopping, begging to be touched in any manner. He began to salivate, his lips feeling too dry at the moment, and he thought to wet them on her arousal. But he would have this first.

“You want me to-?” Rhuon breathed. Coy she acted but coy she was not. This little one knew exactly what he wanted.

“I want you to fuck yourself while I watch.”

That was all she needed. With his words as assurance, she began by dragging her fingers through all that wet terrain, the sound deliciously obscene. Fen’Harel though so too. She took note of the way his chest swelled (which, she also took note of how he was still _dressed_ ) and found the courage to slip in a finger. The sensation was amazing in a way few things are. Just a finger and already did she feel as if she were floating. But it wasn’t enough and with just a few meager pumps under her belt, she added another.

She moaned something splendid as her fingers moved, Fen’Harel unable to 

detach his eyes from the scene. The way her cunt clamped down so tight on the intrusion of two thin fingers, the way her other fingers grew slick, the way her hips moved to seek more friction. She was going too slow, too gentle.

He took charge of her hand, guiding it into her at a great speed and holding her wrist to pull back out. Whether it was humility or sense that held her back, Rhuon restrained all her screams and instead took to the weak rumblings of a whimper. Every thrust garnered a new layer of slick upon his knuckles. This was repeated several times before he could no longer take this madness and wedged two fingers of his own into her. Inside she was warm, so very warm, and soft. If one were to dip their finger into liquefied gold, this is what one would feel. Heat and velvet and a pull to dig deeper.

Their fingers worked against each other, their knuckles pressing in at painful points. It was worth it. Rhuon mewled with the newfound rhythm and Fen’Harel growled. When his thrusts grew harsh, she retracted her fingers to grasp at his wrist. Not to stop. To brace. “More.” She begged, her cunt tightening around his fingers and he knew she was close.

Could smell it in the air.

All the things he wanted to do to her and now he could no longer wait. They both needed, both ached and he was stumbling in his fidelity to a previous pact of holding out. “ _Garas,”_ he commanded and she came undone.

Rhuon screamed to the Heavens his name over and over again as if it were a prayer. And it was, in its own sense. He was a god and it was becoming increasingly hard to care. He lusted like any man.

While making the gradual descent from the high, Fen’Harel had worked himself free of his clothing and was now brandishing his cock. Fully erect and famished, Rhuon thought to scream. It was massive and thick, sure to break anyone unprepared. She began to protest, her body gathering up but he was there to assure her.

“All is well, _da’len.”_ He murmured, kissing her, “You must relax.”

That was a feat much easier to talk about than do. He stroked her hair, rubbed at her clit with calloused fingers and only when he made her a vow of truth did she gain him entrance.

He positioned himself between her legs, smirking and rubbing his length against her slit to wet himself. “Tell me who you are, Rhuon.” Was his final statement before thrusting inside of her.

She gasped, the force of the thrust launching her up a bit. And the fullness . . . Creators there was nothing like it. To be so full and be so small meant there was a burn – delicious and arousing. At a time, it felt as if he might rip her in half, though she was content with that.

Rhuon grasped him tightly, allowing for little to yank him from her just as he liked it. The feel of her – wet and hot, rippling and trying as she adjusted to the sensation, was so overwhelmingly intense his head went light for a moment. She reacted in a way unique to virgins and he loved it. Her body explored and experimented as anyone of a curious spirit would.

“Oh, yes. _Creators, yes._ ” She whispered, rolling her hips against his.

Fen’Harel growled.

He pulled out of her to thrust back in. She cried out. “Tell me.” He hissed.

“I love your cock.” Rhuon gasped, kissing his cleft chin. “If I could, I would knock that perpetual fucking look from your face.”

His laughter was chocked for she thought now an excellent time to tighten around him. Her trick was worthy of praise, though. Fen’Harel twined kisses up her throat, tracing a path with the positioning of them. Between them, he crammed her hand to work at her clit, her every movement subject to his whim. Lithe fingers controlled the runes she traced onto the knot, his efforts lavishly rewarded with all sorts of sweet sounds. Gasps. Mewls. Curses.

Around him, her cunt did wonders. It clenched and rippled, trying hard to siphon out evidence of a well-received gift. But the Wolf became hesitant at calling this one a gift or any manner of object. Rhuon was more, or so she appeared. Deep down he could feel it.

“Are you close, Little Rhuon?”

He knew for certain he was. As for her, the truth was in the eager ripple of her muscles. But before he could drive her over, Rhuon stumbled upon a repertory of strength and mad courage. She _threw_ him, the mighty Dread Wolf, back onto the sheets, taking up a position atop him. With this newfound position came the immediate swell of pride he was so accustomed to holding, her movements so very . . . Free. No longer did he control her, but she controlled him. _She_ moved his hand at her clit, rode him like a savage and stole from his kisses.

“I’ll ride you into battle, _Fen’Harel._ ” She teased, giggling, “I’ll take us both to heaven and Beyond. Now bite me.”

Fen’Harel was shocked. She was more. So much more. A wicked smile found the line of his mouth, one that split his lips and displayed his fangs. He adored this side. Few people were ever willing to show it, let alone share it. In fact, he had never been able to recall being dominated in such a way without having to ask. But while she might be on top, he was still the one reigning power over the situation.

Rhuon’s wish was fulfilled when her bit her nipple, his teeth so fierce they drew blood, though she seemed unfazed by it. Crimson drops painted a glorious masterpiece upon his chest, the picture gliding down his abdomen.

One final kiss was shared before bliss exploded between them and that kiss was enough to silence the world for a moment. It as sensual and giving as allowing him passage through a virgin canal, as sweet and as . . . loved as the coo of an infant. The participation of teeth did not matter, nor that of a tongue. What mattered was the meaning within it. And with that meaning sealed, Rhuon came around him, weeping and screaming. Her cunt convulsed with the passion of great satisfaction, her tears evidence to a moment so brilliant she could never hope to relive it.

As for him, that moment came just seconds later, preceded by the murmur of throaty groans in her ear. He released streams of his seed into her, colouring her insides with love and heat.

With all their tension relieved, Rhuon collapsed atop him: spent and exhausted. She could, unlike the experienced, withstand no more of this for the evening. Unless he was willing to break her, which he wasn’t. Someone so new to the craft could not handle such a dosage of stimuli. He instead pressed tender kisses to her crown, ran fingers up the length of her spine and back down again.

“ _Ma elgar’asha, emma ghilani ma vhenan in mala lath.”_ He whispers into the shell of her ear, a dagger of cool warmth spreading throughout her.

She looks to him, now able to meet his stare, and assess him for some indication of a worth. Even gods managed a worth, and even gods could manage no worth. But he had one. The issue was deciding it. “Already you love me?” she breathed, eyes narrowing. “Is it that you mock me?”

“I do not mock you. I simply cherish you.”

“Already?”

“Already.”

Rhuon giggles, blushing. “Stupid Wolf.”

 

 


End file.
